


Mums The Word

by starsandamorphinetoast



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1966, Alcohol, Birthdays, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Paris - Freeform, alcohol mention, birthday surprise, body image issues mentioned, the touring years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 14:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandamorphinetoast/pseuds/starsandamorphinetoast
Summary: John feels he's going to have a rotten birthday, especially since Paul keeps bringing up the last good one he can remember.  They're in Paris, but it's 1966 now, and the wonder and contentment that he felt five years prior is nowhere to be found.  There are tons of other people around, and they're there on business.  But then Paul starts acting strange, and after wandering the maze of hallways at the hotel with him, he finds out why.  Not such a bad birthday after all.





	Mums The Word

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a birthday surprise for boomcrashthelightningflashed.tumblr.com  
Hope you like it! It's fairly short, but c'est la vie.

“Do you remember,” Paul had whispered many times to him that day, as they rode around the the cramped van, six people, seven people, crammed into the space looking out at the dreariness surrounding them. The sky was grey and the wind was chilly, and even in the van, pressed in like sardines shoulder to shoulder, he shivered against the cold.

“Oh but on the day we first got here it was sunny. Bright and warm, just a light jacket was all we needed.” Paul mused, frowning slightly and stirring cream into his coffee with some pastry as raindrops pelted down outside the window of the cafe, the only spot along the Champs Elysees that hadn’t been too crowded to risk showing their faces in. “Winter must be trying to come early.” 

The show had been the previous night, and they were just hanging around, sorting out some business matters and doing the light sight-seeing that Ringo had insisted upon and Brian had reluctantly agreed to. It was nice to at least be out of the monkey suits and in regular clothes again, even if he was turning his coat collar up against the rain and wrapping his arms around himself to keep from shivering. Really, all he wanted was to get back to the hotel and drink himself to sleep, forget how miserable today was, forget being another pointless year older. 

“Back when we wore leather jackets and slicked out hair back and all of that, you know.” Paul’s voice rang through again against the noise of the traffic going by, stranding in the alley, the four of them, smoking their cigarettes.

“Do you remember,” and John glanced at him from the side. “When just you and I were in Paris?” 

Finally he let out a sigh at the little memories flying through the open window of Paul’s mind. “‘Course I remember, you git.” He muttered back, sparing a cautious look towards the other two. “What’re you bringing it up for?” 

“S’just interesting, Johnny. We’re here, five years later to the day!” Paul said in answer.

* * *

One more night in the hotel. Paul suggested they go back early, maybe get a drink in the hotel bar. John was all too happy to oblige. There was to be no party, no real celebration. They didn’t have the time, nor could they risk that kind of thing with the lack of security they had at the moment. That sort of big party the day after a show? They’d need more staff around for such a thing, and the majority of their staff had already moved on to Berlin, where the next show was to take place the following night.

When they got back to the hotel though, Paul grabbed his wrist and diverted him away from the rest of the lads who went on towards the bar. 

“The fuck are ye doin’ Macca?” He asked in irritation. “It’s my bloody birthday, can’t a man get a couple drinks in?” 

Paul shushed him and led him on. “Yeah, ‘course. Just come with me first.” 

Up the ornate winding stairs, down hallway after hallway, a dark back stairwell, up and up and up, on and on and on. “Where are you bloody well takin’ me?” 

Shushed again. That really was starting to be annoying. He was just about to protest again, jerk his hand away, tell him off for shushing him and make him explain himself. But then Paul stopped in front of the last door at the very end of the final hallway on the top floor. John opened his mouth to ask who’s room this even was, and Paul produced a key from his pocket before he could ask. 

John walked in, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, slowly smoothing out in favor of lifting in surprise. “Paul, what-”

“Cheers, thanks mate, and mums the word, yeah?” Paul whispered through the cracked door, reaching out and handing whoever stood there something from his wallet, then shutting it behind him. He faced John with a grin, then extended his arms, looking around like an afterthought. “Well? Whaddya think?” 

It must’ve been the goddamn honeymoon suite, for Christ’s sake. The bed was enormous, bigger even than a king size he’d wager. Everything was immaculate, pressed white sheets, a plush red duvet, chocolates on the pillows and all. A room service cart sat near the bed, full to it’s entirety of fruit, bread, cheese, and more wine than the two of them could conceivably drink. His eyes were drawn to the record player on which Pet Sounds was already spinning, the softness of Paul’s favorite song spilling through the speakers. On top of everything, every surface, the bedside tables, the dining table, the coffee table, the dresser, the vanity, covered in tiny shimmering candles.

_ God only knows what I’d be without you.  _

He faced Paul again. “You did this?” 

Paul nodded, smile on his face. “Yeah. I mean...I rented the room for the night, and had room service bring the food and all. Paid a bellhop to start the record and light the candles before we got in.”

His eyes softened and he felt a smile starting to form, his own expression striving to match that of his partner’s. “Why?” He asked, eyes roaming the room again, noting the romantic atmosphere that it held.

“For your birthday, of course!” He said, laughing as if that was the silliest question in the world and walking closer to him. “Maybe we can’t have a party, but you and I sure can, huh? Even Brian doesn’t know we’ve got the room.” 

John looked back at him sharply, feeling his cheeks warm at the words. “Is that why you were bringing up our trip so much?” It had  _ been  _ since the time they’d come for John’s birthday in ‘61 that they’d fooled around like that. John felt foolish to even consider that might be what all the fuss was about, that maybe Paul was suggesting-

“Yeah.” Paul said, suddenly sheepish, biting at his nail and looking down at the fluffy rug beneath their feet. “I mean, I know we were just kids then and that it’s...different now. But...” He shrugged and glanced up at him. “I thought maybe we could-” 

“Sure we could.” John answered as quickly as he could manage. 

Paul visibly relaxed once he’d heard. “Oh, good.” He let out a sigh. “I was worried you might not want to, or might get mad that I was suggesting it.” 

John laughed at the incredulity of it all. How Paul could’ve made it this far without noticing how mindlessly, how  _ desperately _ John wanted him seemed so ridiculous that he couldn’t hold in his amusement at it. “You soft sod. You rented us the bloody honeymoon suite and all.” He shook his head and walked closer to brush the back of his fingers over Paul’s blushing cheek. 

* * *

It wasn’t long before the wine was half gone, and John was tasting it lingering on Paul’s lips, and Paul was tasting it lingering on his. Paul laid on his side, face hovering above John’s, hand tangled in his hair. “Baby...” He whispered.

“Hm?” John answered, breath hitching when Paul pushed himself up and straddled his waist. 

“Why did we stop when we left Paris?” He asked, words barely discernible through the dusting of kisses he was leaving over John’s jaw. 

John didn’t have an answer, not one that would suffice in the slightest. There was no reason, none that he could think of; perhaps these years had passed full of insecurity, each of them reluctant to ask the other. Instead of answering, he reached out and made short work of the buttons of the man’s shirt. 

He got it off, made Paul pause to pull his teeshirt over head, and then his hands were roaming over the expanse of bare skin that he’d craved having to himself for ages, arched his neck and pulled him closer to feel it with his lips, with his cheek, with his forehead, inhaling the smell of  _ Paul _ in this moment, committing it to memory ardently. 

It was only when Paul reached out to tug at John’s own teeshirt that he came back to. He reluctantly lifted his arms, wincing when Paul’s hands met his skin. 

“What?” Paul asked, eyebrows furrowing.

John shrugged and looked to the side, out the window, fingers tapping nervously on the mattress beneath him. “Nothin’, s’just last time we...last time I was more fit than I am now.” Paul stared at him until John squirmed under his gaze. He looked back at him finally and huffed. “What?” 

“You’re dense.” He said, lowly, voice dripping with something smooth and sweet and warm. “Really, really dense, John.” His lips attached to his neck, hands on his waist while he kissed his way down, taking his time. It was reverence, it was exaltation, it was  _ dizzying _ to think that Paul could devote that kind of attention to him. They’d made no contact below the belt, but by the time Paul made it to his waistband, the lazy and unhurried way that Paul had touched him, the way he looked up at him, giving no indication that he intended to move his face from between his legs for a good long while, it had John anxious for what laid ahead. 

He tangled his hand in Paul’s hair, face flushed, forehead dotted with sweat, eyes half-lidded as he looked down. Before he could open his mouth to crack a joke or ask Paul what he was waiting for, Paul was opening his own. 

“You’re gorgeous, alright?” He said hands on his legs. “I don’t...I don’t...” He shook his head and laughed at himself, pressing his face into the curve of John’s thigh. “I don’t know how to make you see that. I don’t know how to explain. You’re so bloody gorgeous I sometimes have to stop myself saying daft things when I look at you.”

“Like what?” John asked breathlessly, trying and failing not to press Paul’s face further towards him. 

“Like that I l-” He broke off and shook his head, pulling slightly away and reaching up to unfasten his belt. A long moment passed once he had it undone, his hand atop John’s thighs, eyes staring down at the bedspread. “Like...like happy birthday, Johnny.” 

* * *

The bellboy came back, knocked on the door an hour later. They laid in bed, finishing off the fruit and the bread, drinking wine from one of the bottles left, eyes heavy and limbs heavier. They were tangled in the sheets and tangled in each other. 

“Come in!” Paul called. John was too late to advise against it and looked at Paul anxiously throughout the exchange. 

The young man walked another cart towards the bed, a lavishly decorated cake sitting on a tray on it, and two cups of coffee to boot. Then, he made to take away the used one. 

“Hold on,” Paul said before he could leave, stretching and reaching for his trousers at the foot of the bed and pulling out a small wad of bank notes. “Mums the word, huh?” 

John could only laugh quietly to himself as the kid took the cash and left after an enthusiastic nod. 

“Spoiling me, McCartney.” 

But Paul didn’t answer, just smiled gently down at him.

John found himself smiling back just as softly.  _ Happy birthday to me indeed. _


End file.
